Flames of a Butterfly
by Peyton LeVay
Summary: Only an incorrigible idiot with suicidal tendencies would ever classify being reborn into the Avatar-verse—in the middle of a century-long war—as "cool." Nuff' said. — SI, OC. AU.
1. Through the Metaphysical Rabbit Hole

_**Disclaimer!**_** I do not own Avatar: the Last Airbender**_**—that **_**honor belongs to Michael Dante DiMartino, Bryan Konietzko, and Nickelodeon.**

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

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><p>When I first woke up, I found myself in darkness so thick that I couldn't see two feet in front of me. It was tight—almost, but not quite, claustrophobically so—but admittedly warm, and quiet, and almost comforting, if not <em>extremely<em> disconcerting. And such a stark contrast to the pellucid, sterile world I had grown accustomed to in the past few months, that at first I thought my current location was nothing more than a product of an incredibly lucid dream.

But, as the time I spent in the place dragged on longer and longer, I consider that—perhaps—the surgery the doctor had suggested had failed and I had slipped into a coma as a result. I mean, even if he _was_ the best of the best, he was still human, and therefore bound to make mistakes. No amount of money I paid him could change that.

Besides, my disease was in the late stages, and any operation the man had given me had been a gamble at best.

Still, the longer I stayed here, the more skeptical I grew of the 'I was in a coma' theory. According to a friend who had experienced one first hand, being in a coma was like being in absolute nothingness. It was like some sort of deep, dreamless sleep. I knew I wasn't supposed to be experiencing what I was experiencing—the warmth, the security...the feelings—_sensations_—I felt; like something was being put together inside of me...

Or perhaps my friend was wrong, and you did dream when you were in a coma—maybe it's just that one did not always have the mental capacity to remember what happened in the dream. Or maybe some just dreamed of nothingness, while others...not so much.

Still, I had to wonder: of all the things I could have dreamed of...why was my mind projecting a fetus?

(I had put two and two after feeling the extra appendage directly attached to my navel. Everything just started falling into place from there.)

_Am I _really _going to be forced to relive my own birth?_

A shiver ran down my spine, and my legs struck the rubbery walls encasing me harder than they normally did.

_Please, oh _please_, don't let this be real. Just let this be a dream, o-or some massive, cosmic joke! Just—no matter _what_—don't let this be real!_

But no matter how much I pleaded and begged, I never left my penitentiary—sorry: Freudian slip. I meant the womb—though I did find myself drifting in and out of clarity, if only to pass the time.

And the longer I remained, the more frustrated I became. The more frustrated I became...the harder I kicked and punched the rubbery walls surrounding me. Usually, after a bit, I'd calm down after soothing voices spoke to me, and then I'd feel a thick, blanket-like sensation of being completely—_utterly_—safe, and then my entire body would relax as I listened to my mother's heartbeat.

The day my birth took place, it wasn't completely unexpected. I felt the subtle tightening—_painful constricting_—of the walls surrounding me, and I heard my mother's erratic heartbeat, and the frantic voices outside as my dream came closer and closer to its climax.

And then I was unceremoniously shoved, headfirst, down a bloody tube—more commonly known as the "birth canal"—screeching, wailing to the loudest capacity my tiny, newly formed lungs were capable of; completely _disgusted and indignant_ of what I'd just been forced to endure as I coughed up a thick—_unidentifiable_—viscous substance, completely enveloped in blood and afterbirth and _God only knows what else_.

The entire world was a blur to me. I could see nothing but vague outlines of huge figures that were both bigger, and stronger than I. The easiest distinctions I could make were the stark contrasts between light and dark. I could still see barest shapes and edges and colors, yes, but nothing looked familiar.

Another thing I could recall was that I could no longer understand the language being spoken. At first I wasn't completely bothered by this; I mean, it could've just meant my ears weren't fully developed. No big deal.

It _was_ a big deal, however, when my ears _did_ fully develop, and I realized that the language being spoken really wasn't English. Which was a problem because, as far as I knew, I had been born in a hospital in Queens—a place where the language would have been, without a doubt: English.

When my vision fully developed...it was even worse—

—because there is _no way_ my mother had always looked like Fire Princess Ursa**.**

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><p><strong>edit: 922/14**

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><p><strong>Edit: 814/14**

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><p><strong>AN: This fic was deleted for...personal reasons. Um, is a mission of self-discovery a good enough reason? Probably not, but...whatever. Anyway, sorry it took me this long to re-post. I kept redoing the chapter, and when I was finally finished...I accidentally deleted an entire freaking section—even worse:**_** I deleted the end. **_**Boy...that was **_**way**_** more trouble than its worth. **

**Er, what else...? Ah, yeah. I'll be putting a question at the end of every chapter—just to give you something to put in your review, in case you can't think of anything.**

**QUESTION: **If you could be reborn as anyone in the Avatar-verse, who would it be?

**Thank you for reading. Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. A Storm Over Blossoms

**Disclaimer! Suing me will get you zilch...as I have no money. Seriously, I have _none_. **

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><p><strong>Beta: Sunstar Writer <strong>

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

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><p>At first, I simply dismiss the spectacle as a by-product of remarkably lucid dream: everyone always says that I have an imagination that is far too rambunctious for my own good, and giving me drugs would probably be like giving me a one-way ticket to Narnia.<p>

But the longer time drags on, the more skeptical I become, until I finally start questioning whether or not the cosplayer-who-is-my-mother is really either a cosplayer or a product of my supposed dream.

But, is it_—really?_ What could I use to decide if this—whatever this _is_—is real?

There's the issue of time: it has gone on longer than any other dream I'd ever had—though I can't remember most of them—but that point could be very well be moot. In dreams, nothing ever went in accordance with actual time, and tended to skip over parts that provided limited stimuli; I can see why I had to sit through the birth (that had been both stimulating, and _terrifying as all hell_) but not why I had to sit through those assumed nine months in the womb, or the duller moments of my often boring-as-hell infantile existence.

Besides, being in a child's body, I often find myself falling asleep; and I've never heard of anyone falling asleep in their own dream, aside from when they were about to wake up. And no matter how many times I am forced to succumb to my body's needs for the occasional siesta, I never return to my previous existence in my hospital room.

(not that I really want _that_ either.)

So...no; this is more than likely not a dream. What it actually is...is up for debate. A coma is a possibility, though there is no way to affirm the theory until I wake up_—if_ I wake up, _if_ I hadn't died during the surgery, and _if_ this wasn't the afterlife, reincarnation, or _whatever_ it is that happens to us after we die.

Honestly, I don't find any of those options appealing—though the most likely version is reincarnation; it certainly explains why I found myself in a _fetus_ for nine months.

But, what it doesn't explain is _why_ _I **remember**_. I have only passing knowledge of reincarnation, but I'm pretty sure that one isn't supposed to retain their memories of their past life; that it's all supposed to wiped clean before you were shoved into a new existence. Then again, there's a significant lack of first-hand accounts of such occurrences, as anyone who did have such memories kept them to themselves for fear of being forced into the nearest loony bin.

Still, what right do I have to question the process—which I probably wouldn't fully understand until my next death? Or have I _already_ died several times before?

…

Either way, it isn't really all that important in the end. I'm here now, and whether or not this is just some illusion my mind fabricated, it _feels_ real, so I might as well live as though it _is_. If it turns out to be real, then go me; I've got a new chance at life. If it isn't, I'll have lost nothing more than I already have, and then some.

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><p>ƸӜƷ<p>

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><p>Over the next few days, I try to glean as much information about my new—<em>ahem<em>—life as I can, and in the process, learn quite a bit.

Firstly: if I want something, all I have to do is scream and anyone who's nearby will come running, doing their best to appease me, if only to shut me up.

Secondly: I have an older brother, who (is _absolutely adorable_ and) takes great pleasure in alternating between playing with me and asking (read: _begging_) our mother to read something to us, or to take us outside to see the gardens.

Thirdly: my father is someone vastly important and extremely wealthy. I discover this as I am carried around the house—though the more accurate term in this case would be _palace_—and the gardens reveal its immense proportions, and the size and furnishing of my nursery reassure me of the fact that I am no servant's child. That, and the fact that my father is wealthy enough to afford and require security, as there is always at least two guards posted right outside the door.

And finally: after a lot of strained listening and attempts to decipher and soak up the language, I learn that my name is Azula; or, if you want to be formal, Princess Azula. Daughter of Prince Ozai, Princess Ursa, and the younger sister of Prince Zuko—all of whom are _fictional characters_ from a _cartoon series_ that I used to watch as an adolescent. A cartoon series, that just so happened to be set in the _**middle of a century-long war**_.

_Yeah. As if_ **dying and coming back to life** _hadn't been bad enough._

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><p>ƸӜƷ<p>

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><p>Approximately six months after my revelation, I am a year old and sitting in my room, flipping through a picture book—no words yet, since I haven't yet learned how to read, though I have asked Urs...M...M...<em>Mother <em>to teach me, and she promised that she would arrange for me to start my reading and writing lessons with Zuko soon.

But the picture book itself had been surprisingly enlightening, in terms of providing cultural Intel. From what I can tell, it's portraying Fire Lord Sozin—my paternal great-great grandfather—start the tradition of slaughtering dragons.

In a really backwards kind of way, it sort of makes sense; dragons are—_were_, since Uncle Iroh slaughtered the last one in his youth—after all, the 'original source' and pinnacle of firebending. It makes sense that once you were able to defeat a dragon, you were considered the elite of the elite. It doesn't make it any less disgusting or cruel, but intellectually...it makes sense.

_That aside, dragons had been Roku's animal guide, and had probably only further served to remind him of his leaving his former best friend to die at the metaphorical hands of a volcano. He had stated in his diary that he felt guilty about it, if only because Roku hadn't 'seen sense' and supported him in his cause in the end, like a good Fire Nation citizen. Perhaps that's part of it. _

I thumb through the last page, set it aside, and pick up another book—this one is about the Air Nomad Genocide, judging by the cover filled with Fire Nation soldiers versus people in orange and yellow robes—and toddle off in search of my mother so that I can ask her to read this to me.

Maybe it will be nothing more than war propaganda, but I am interested in what happened during the attack—or at least, learning early on what Fire Nationals believe happened.

Since she herself is unavailable—eating lunch with Ozai (_he isn't Father; not yet and maybe _not ever) at some unheralded Fire Nation noble's house, according to Li, a member of my personal guard—I settle for Lian; one of the nicer ones of my mother's personal handmaidens.

She had been all but happy to indulge me, and cheerfully began to read to me page after page of the account. I struggle to keep my disgust off my face as she does. _This_ is what they believe happened?

They believe that the Airbenders used military force to fight our armada. The Air Nomads were pacifists, and didn't have a formal military, so they didn't deliver anything we didn't; _we_ attacked _them_, and they fought back in self-defense. They didn't do anything to us that we didn't do to them—well, except the methods they used to. We burned, they...asphyxiated, to put it lightly.

I don't bother saying any of that, though, because it's clear that Lian wholeheartedly believes every word of it, and it would be stupid to try and correct her at this stage. Mainly because I'm not supposed to know what I know in the first place, but also because it isn't the right time for them to know, because they are not ready to accept it yet.

_Still, they hadn't needed to kill _all_ the airbenders; anyone above the age of twelve could have been spared, as it was unlikely the Avatar spirit was going to be reborn into anyone older than that—_especially_ considering the fact that Roku had died only twelve years prior._

I frown, only paying half attention to the battle scene in the book (which is not really worth the listen, as it's mostly lies anyway) as I reconsider.

_Maybe they _had_; however peaceful Air Nomads had been, I doubt that they would sit back and watch while Fire Nation soldiers slaughtered their protégés. If anything, they would have fought back, and if that were the case, they wouldn't be able to take prisoners, as there was—_is_, if you count Aang—no way to separate an airbender from their element without killing them...thus, no way to cage them unless they _wanted_ to be caged. It would have been a waste of time to even try, unless they developed qi-blocking...which they hadn't. _

Aside from that, airbending itself was—rather, _is_—a volatile and dangerous element if the wielder wanted it to be. An airbender could create hurricanes, tornadoes, maelstroms, or sandstorms if they were powerful enough a bender. Heck, if they wanted to, they could bend all the air out of your lungs until you die of asphyxiation. If your average airbender was capable of accomplishing that much, then how much more so the Avatar?

In that sense, it would seem logical; eliminate the Avatar before he had the chance to develop all the raw power and potential he had (as the average age of telling them what they were was sixteen—not twelve, as Aang had been), and eliminate the airbenders, who would undoubtedly pose a much bigger threat to the Fire Nation's cause once provoked into action by the loss of whoever the Avatar had been. And after that, root out the next-generation Avatar in the Water Tribes all the way to the Fire Nation—at which point, battle morale in the other nations would go down significantly, and as a result, the Fire Nation would likely win.

Still, the Air Nomad Genocide, however much it is considered mostly a victory amongst my people, as immediately after, the Avatar disappeared, is nothing more than a tragedy; an ugly stain on the Fire Nation's honor. One that will not immediately—if ever—fade away. Something sad and awful, not unlike the events in WWII, when Adolf Hitler attempted to eradicate to the Jews.

I wouldn't be surprised if people never stop looking at us in distrust and fear, even decades after the war ends.

...I am not entirely opposed to the concept of people of all the nations living amongst each other—that's the gist of why Aang and Zuko create Republic City, isn't it? Still, that had been when there was a degree of willingness to give equal amounts of power to each national representative. And even then, there's still going to be the issue of inequality between benders and non-benders to deal with—and after _that_, there's going to be _yet another_ _issue_ that arises.

_Bah. Politics are humbug. I'm sure glad _I'm_ not crown princess. Who needs a position in power anyway, with all the lies, double-entendres, and _paperwork_ that comes with it? Not me, that's for sure._

Then, the story was over, and Lian closed the book and at my request, brought me to over to see Zuko, who is in the middle of a calligraphy lesson; his form riddled with suppressed energy, and the expression on his face markedly bored. Poor guy, being forced to sit still and write for a while when he's filled with so much energy that he could spontaneously combust at any second.

I barely notice as Lian bows to the tutor before excusing herself, as I copy the motion (though the tutor, to my surprise, bowed lower than me. Huh. As a princess, even if I'm not the heir, I guess I still outrank him) before I straighten and stumble as gracefully as possible over to Zuko's side.

"Zuko, w'at you do'ng?" I slur, before wrinkling my nose in distaste at my poor enunciation.

I had discovered very quickly that even with the advantage of my having been twenty-three when I died and having a hyperactive baby-brain that soaked up information like a sponge, it still didn't mean I'd start with automatic fluency or literacy in the language. At least, not until my vocal apparatus is more coordinated; hell, I have a hard time speaking _English!_ It was very frustrating, and I now understood why toddlers were famous for their temper tantrums; not being able to understand things—or being able to understand and just being unable to articulate yourself—is _awful!_

Zuko pauses, glances up, before setting his brush aside; now grinning and clearly relieved to have someone more stimulating than his tutor in the room, not that he'd ever admit that out loud. "Hey, 'Zula," he gestures for me to come closer, and when I oblige, he pulls me into his only marginally-bigger lap and enthusiastically chirps, "these are characters I'm learning how to write this week!" he points at one that looked something like an upside down 'V' with a longer tail and two other lines at the sides. "This one's the character for 'fire,' and this one's for..."

That's pretty much how we spent the rest of the afternoon; with Zuko showing me the different characters he had been learning to read and write, and me listening intently and doing my best to absorb the information. I even try to write a couple of them. Of course, my attempts aren't very successful, given my poor motor coordination; I manage to stain my nose and cheeks with the _sumi_ ink, much to my brother's and the tutor's amusement, and to my dismay.

Yep, this is definitely a Kodak moment. Too bad there's no way it can last.

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><p><strong>edit: 29/15**

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><p><strong>edited — 1017/14**


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